


Man Unmade

by zilia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, MCU Kink Bingo, Masturbation, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), That awful Avengers costume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zilia/pseuds/zilia
Summary: An outfit that's not worth keeping.





	Man Unmade

**Author's Note:**

> Because I saw "costumes" on my Kink Bingo card and I couldn't just do a straightforward "you're keeping the outfit, right?" fic. Oh no.
> 
> Thanks as always to the inimitable Claudia_flies for the beta and the cheerleading!
> 
> Written for the "costumes" square for MCU Kink Bingo.

When Steve gets to the 51st floor of this ridiculous tower, where he finds the guest suite he’d been promised, the first thing he does is find the bathroom, lock the door behind him, and slump against it, exhausted.

Aliens. He’d just fought aliens, led by a Norse god. And he’d met and fought alongside another Norse god, plus four more of the strangest people he’d ever met. Howard’s son, brash and arrogant and even more obnoxious and brilliant than his father had been; Dr Banner, who had risked everything trying to replicate Erskine’s work and had lost himself in the process; Agent Romanov, pricklier than a hedgehog and with _dark past_ written all over her; and Agent Barton, wracked by the guilt of what he’d done under Loki’s bidding and who seemed to view a bow and arrow as sensible weapons for the 21st century. And all of it when he’d only been here a few days himself.

It’s a relief to finally put a barrier between himself and the world.

The most pressing need had been food, but now that that’s taken care of, he can have a shower and then crawl onto the nearest horizontal surface and sleep. He has no memory of actually _tasting_ any of the food he’s just eaten, but at least there’s something in his system now. Maybe he’ll go back in a few days and try it all again, when he can appreciate it.

He cringes a little when he thinks back on it. Stark had rattled on at a hundred miles an hour, filling the space with his constant jabbering about space and science and himself. Mostly himself. Steve’s not so stupid as to not know a defence mechanism when he sees one, of course, but it’s such an aggressive one that he doesn’t know how to handle it. Dr Banner had been the only one to really engage with Stark, reluctantly at first, but becoming more and more animated as Stark had drawn him into discussions about physics and engineering that Steve hadn’t had a hope of understanding. Watching them had been far better than listening; it had given him a warm glow to see the reserved doctor gradually coming out of his shell and speaking like the authority he obviously was.

He’d hoped for a bit more of a chance to get to know the two agents, but they had kept mostly to themselves, communicating almost without speaking, with an evident concern for one another that was both touching and painful to see. That had left Thor, who’d been effusive, complimentary to everyone, loud in his enjoyment of the food, and totally overwhelming. How do you talk to a literal god? He’d been unable to think of anything to say apart from mumbled monosyllables, even when Thor had been obviously trying very hard to put him at his ease.

He must have looked like a complete idiot.

It had reminded him of his USO days. Like being on show again. A performing monkey. Meeting people far more important than himself and having to try desperately to impress them and convince them that he was worthy of being there. Seems he’s still performing for the government even now.

When he opens his eyes and catches sight of himself in the full-length mirror, he groans. Not only is he filthy and exhausted-looking, his hair flopping annoyingly into his eyes – he _really_ needs to find a decent barber – but he’s confronted once again with that travesty of a uniform. Who in their right mind had designed it? He’d almost have been better off in his pyjamas. He should probably be grateful they hadn’t also decided to replace his shield with something equally gaudy and useless.

He desperately wants to be out of these clothes.

_“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”_ he hears, like an echo, and he angrily wrenches the suit off, tearing it clean apart in the middle in his haste to be rid of it. He hurls the top part over his head, then yanks off the boots. Stupid garish colours. Stupid impractical footwear. Stupid ridiculous fastenings. He wants to burn it. He hops around on one leg, kicking furiously, trying to get free of the lower half of the damned thing as it clings to him, and finally it sails into the corner to join the rest of it. Good riddance.

He stands there in his briefs while he works out how to turn the shower on. It takes him a few moments because it’s so damn _complicated_ and he’s so tired he can barely think straight, but he gets there in the end. There’s a dazzling array of products on the small shelf above the sink and he grabs a handful at random.

Steve steps into the cubicle. The water is almost hotter than he can stand, but he likes it, the feeling that the top layer of his skin is being burned away. That cleansing feeling, washing away all the grime and the horror of the battle. He doesn’t think too hard about what exactly it is that’s coating his skin and smelling so terrible. He just wants to be clean. He stands under the spray for several minutes, getting used to the heat, enjoying the luxury of having water to waste, without making any effort to actually wash himself.

_“You’re keeping the outfit, right?”_

Last time he’d had an _outfit_ , it had ended up balled up in the corner of a British boarding house, and it had also gotten torn, though for a very different reason. Equally inappropriate for battle. Just as impractical. But then he’d been jubilant, chasing Bucky’s laughing mouth and his eager hands and his desperate body with the mixture of fear and elation that had accompanied all of their times together, terrified that someone might hear them.

The memory of it makes his dick stir, and he’s suddenly hard for the first time in the 21st century.

_“You know what? It’s kinda growing on me.”_

The way Bucky had _looked_ at him, the hunger in his eyes, the smirk around his lips that had told Steve he was going to put him back into those ridiculous tights only to take them off again… Even Peggy’s arrival and the awkward flirting that had followed hadn’t quenched the flame, and when she’d left Steve had followed Bucky out of there like he’d had his cock on a leash.

And that had only been the first time they’d used it; there had been many others. Lost in memories, he’s almost surprised to look down and find he’s touching himself, gripping so tightly it hurts, but he doesn’t want to stop.

_Bucky had used the tights to bind him to a chair once and then teased and tormented him until he begged, finally relenting and riding him until it had almost splintered to matchsticks beneath them._

It feels good. He feels good. He keeps going.

_Steve had shoved the mask down over Bucky’s eyes and licked and sucked and nibbled him all over, relearning every inch of him, and they’d had to be extra careful to hide the bite marks the next day._

He squeezes himself harder, faster, getting closer to the edge.

_Bucky had worn the jersey and it had looked ridiculous on him, so baggy on the shoulders, making him look so small and vulnerable that Steve had been unable to resist scooping him up and making slow, tender love to him on the bed. He’d felt invincible, riding the high of victory and the certainty that Bucky would always be by his side, now that he’d snatched him back from death, and Jesus Christ, he loved him, loved him so much, loved him…_

He comes with a gasp in long, agonising pulses, feeling like he’s turning inside out. It takes away his last remaining strength, and he sinks to the floor, hunching up into a ball under the water, shaking and trembling and feeling wretchedly, miserably alone. The water thunders down around him, washing everything away, and he wishes it would take him with it. But his body, seemingly indestructible, stubbornly remains. Ice and time couldn’t harm it. A shower stands no chance.

When he finally emerges, he feels raw, exposed and wrung-out. He can’t bring himself to put that ruined costume back on once he’s dry, so he drops the towel and wanders into the adjoining bedroom. Sleep. He needs to sleep. Naked, he crawls into the bed, under the covers, and passes out for fifteen hours.

When he wakes, ravenous and refreshed and feeling like he’s grown a new protective skin, he finds a message for him flashing on a TV screen on the wall.

_Hey Cap you don’t have a phone so had to send you a message here make yourself at home there’ll be a floor for you soon but in the meantime food upstairs in the kitchen on level 67 come check it out everyone’s here._

Seemingly Tony Stark is too busy, or maybe too cool, for punctuation. Nevertheless, he’s touched. Stark doesn’t have to offer him anything here, yet the man has opened his home to them all. Such a gesture deserves repayment. And there’s no point in surviving if you survive alone, at least not to a soldier, and Steve is a soldier first and foremost. If he’s going to be fighting in this century, he’s going to need friends to fight with.

He looks back to the screen, then gets up, puts on some of the Stark-branded sweats he finds in the closet, and then heads to the door. It’ll be a while, perhaps, before he can call these people his friends. But maybe it’s a start.

  



End file.
